Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1887-04-03

excitement. II was impossible to stop.
After moments hesitation ne spoke
again, his voice grown very low and
tremulous.
"Miss Norbury, was speaking Of
myself-you must have guessed. 1t is
so with me. You know what Iam-that
/ am solicitor. You do not know that
have other hopes--that 1t Is my am
bition, my longing TO do some work,
however humble, in the great world
of literature. 1 have no foolish esti-
mate OF myself-no vain idea that /
am destined to leap into sudden
fame. But / know that have some
slight Gift that some small thing
/ can achieve. ] have not told my
hopes to many people, because the
world is slow to believe that q man can
work outside of the craft he has been
trained to. You will wonder why l
should have striven to tell it TO You. l
have dared to do 80 because with my
dreams of purposeful labor, of a life
nobly worked, is mingled a tenderer
hope. Because love you.
She raised herself up and looked at
him with wondering eyes, but before
she had time to utter the words that
were trembling ON her lips he went on !:
81 have not known You long, but /
have loved you since the first day L
saw you. That is more than year
ago now. 1t was in the theatre, and 1
remember so well how you came run
ming on the stage in q shabby black
frock, laughing, with your hair unbound
and falling in great waves over your
shoulders. You had grown into my
heart long before knew you, and
1 bad dreamed many fond dreams
of how / might come to meet you
some day and Of what happiness the
world might have for me then--God
willing. And now, when the time had
come, I could not tell you of my love
till had told you of myself, that you
might not altogether despise me as a
mere money getting mschine-a thing
without hope, without ambition. L
could not ask You to share my life be-
fore told you what that life would be,
that hoped soon to cast aside the petty
cares OF an ignoble calling and seek
after higher things. l have told you
all. There is nothing more, but TO say
again that / love you. 1 love you"
He was silent.
81 am very sorry" she said. Every,
very sorry"
Don't say that. Can you not give
me one grain of hope l know only
too well that there is little in me now
that any woman should love. know
that it was folly for me TO press my
commonplace love, my crude aspira-
tons, on you now, that had better
have waited till 1 should have done
something that would lift me a little
from the ruck of mediocrities and made
me less unworthy of you. But I could
not wait in silence, knowing that sue
cess might come too late.
"No, do not say any more," said
Miss Eorbury, land forgive me for
having allowed you to say so much.
But l could not help it. You aston
ished ne so much, and could not
stop you.
"But will you not"
at is useless. The truth is thatyou
have misunderstood me and L you.
You thought / was romantic and /
thought you weren't. thought you
were just solicitor, and sensible, and
like anybody else. You know, YOU"
81 look it ?" said the poet bitterly.
"Well-yes; you do. L never
dreamed that you were so clever and
ambitious and that-and well, I'm
not. I'm just very common and stupid
and like other people" she said, with a
comical little gesture of self-contempt.
"And 1 like people that are stupid.
There are so many of the others--the
men who are painters and poets and
things like that-that ! have known ;
and they were always $3.50 intense
and so full Of what they had done aud
what they were going TO do and they
cared so little about the foolish things
that / ike-dancing and skating and
fun. They did not seem to have any
fun in them at all. "
"And if l had never said anything
about my ambition at all, about the
hopes that l was fool enough to think
would ennoble me in your sight, you
might have liked me well enough ?"
"Well, you know l do like you.
But"
"Then," said he eagerly, cit is not
myself that you dislike, but my plans.
/ will sacrifice them. / would give up
my life for you. Why should ] not
give up even the dearest prospect OF
my life /? VIII you"
81 am sorry" she said again. "But
it is impossible. You might change
your life for my sake if l were vain
enough to exact such a sacrifice, but
you could not change your nature. You
would be sorry afterward, and would
come in time to hate me for having
spoiled your life. Do not deny IT,
seeing him about to speak. 81 know
you are too generous to think IL
possible. / am sure you would be
too generous ever to let me know if
it should come to pass. But you
could not help it. You could not help
seeing-when you had found out what
a good-for-nothing, brainless little frib-
BILE / am-what mistake it was to
throw away your noble future in pass
ing fancy Tor a foolish little girl with
red hair and, perhaps, a pretty face.
Forgive me il / have misled you in any
way, but it is impossible to do what
you ask-quite impossible"
She held out her hand, looking up to
him penitently. he took it aud held it
for moment, then raised it to his lips
and kissed the small fingers.
"There is nothing to forgive" he
said. 81 have been an IDIOT"
They rose up and went out of the
place in silence, mingling with the
throng of dancers who came from the
ballroom. The valse was over.
Two or three hours later Bill Rafter
came up TO the poet, who was seated on
the stairs gravely discussing American
literature with New York pressman.
Thinking of going, John ?" he
said.
"Yes, I'm ready" said John An
thony. "Haye you had enough
dancing ?"
"Lots. Let's get along"
They went down and got hanson.
1t was half an hours drive to the
street in which they both lived, within
few doors of each other, and, after
ten minutes silence, Bill Rafter began
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